Bo Peep's Backstory
by Somewhat Sentient
Summary: This is the story of Bobbi Argall's, Bo Peep's, parents.  Right from the moment they met.  This was originally supposed to be a Valentine's special, but I guess it can survive as it's own little prologue to my other story.  Please review and flame!
1. The First Meeting: Part One

**Hi! This is supposed to be a Valentine's special, but I guess it's evolved into something else. Also, there are a few terms in here that are not exactly clear, so I'm going to explain them at the end. I'd rather not intervene with your reading - please review and flame!**

I'd never been much of a girl to flirt of fall in love with men. I did go to dances and balls, but stayed at the buffet and dinner tables. My mother, the annoying housewife she is, always told me if I went on like that I'd get bigger than a pregnant cow and scare away the suitors with money. This is why I devoured the serving of swan and vegetables before the event had even started at every party I went to. Alas, my figure stayed the same attractive on it always will be.

My ill fortune presented the tedious task of keeping away young men – and old men alike. I had so many splendors to offer them after all; riches, my beauty, good housekeeping skills, my beauty…and many other things. I had to be careful even in the confines of my own room! A beautiful women lives a dangerous life.

I'd created a large archive of excuses to all types of men, taking in their appearance and processing the reason accordingly. Not a single one had enough time to court me or force me into a dance before my quick response. I was sly, powerful, and quite something to look at might I add. Thus I was duly named the Vanguard Vixen. I was usually referred to by my father's surname, Hughes, but my mother's maiden name was fine enough.

As I was stuffing several strudels down my throat and attempting to wash it down with water, I saw a young man approach me in the corner of my eye. Swallowing everything in one gulp and dabbing my mouth with a lace handkerchief, I braced myself for the invitation to dance. After all, why else would he be heading my way?

The boy wasn't an ugly youth, which made denying him a bit harder in my eyes. His hair fell straight, hanging down at the end of a ponytail which I found was no longer in style. His brown rag-doll dreadlocks completely contrasted my short blonde curls. It took a bit more time than expected to get my hair perfectly curled, so I expected him to compliment me. When I finally had a good excuse, he reached me.

And then went right by me.

This startled me, but not in a positive way. I stomped childishly, my heel clicking against the waxed floor as I hugged angrily. Was he meeting someone? No, this bumpkin wasn't one to court – I didn't need to look hard to find that out about him. Raking my hands down my dress, I saw him turn his head to face me. _Finally, _I thought impatiently.

"Excuse me, would you - "

"I'm quite sorry kind sir. I'm part of a nunnery, still a daughter of the Lord in training. I can't possibly accept." The young man stuttered, and I smiled victoriously inside. They'd all for me eventually, only to be driven away by my ingenuity. I waited for his answer, his upset and pathetic reply. I cherished this part the most, after all. What's better than seeing an invitation so easily tossed into the fire, the invitee left alone to fend for himself? If anything, it was better than opera.

"I don't see how this has to do with passing a tart, milady."

"Excuse me?" He swallowed again, obviously getting a bit nervous. I didn't understand, though! Was I not attractive enough to catch his eye? Oh, I knew I should've worn my corset, not gone out like a lowly peasant! This wouldn't do. I'd have to excuse myself from the conversation, and mingle with another before steam began to pour out my ears.

"Well, I was going to ask for a tart, but I suppose it could be seen as a sin, postulant. In which case I will refrain from such gluttony, so if you may excuse me…"

I latched onto his sticky jam-covered hand, disgusted but determined for a win. He turned back towards me, and I attempted a brilliant smile. He cringed; it probably came out a bit more forced that I'd hoped. Closing my mouth, I gulped and tried to recover my common sense. No such fortune; I was still digging my nails into the flesh on his wrist.

"Would you like to dance?" I asked feebly, smacking myself mentally for the horrible recovery. The boy seemed to become gravely ill in that fraction of a second, his cheeks discolored and the tips of his ears gone bright red. I let go of his hand, a bit afraid of the sudden ailment – one could never tell the Plague from the flu. However, he took my hand uncertainly and led me towards the middle of the floor.

Why had I made this mistake?

Everyone around us parted, not exactly welcome to the couple with a sickly participant. I could understand their feelings completely; what if my loved one had gotten sick from the disease that other person's loved one was spreading on the ballroom floor? No, I too would back up and pinch my nose, scoffing in the direction of the poor and destined to fail couple. At least, I hope that we were destined to fall. _Not that we're a couple yet! Or ever will be, to be exact…_

The youth put his hand around my waist, and I felt the ticklish feeling that came from the goose bumps arising on my skin. Smiling all the while, I pushed his hand a bit higher and rested my own hands on his shoulders. We were a bit too close, and I didn't quite know how to dance, but I knew he would figure it out. Unless he was the bumpkin I thought him to be, and decided that if she didn't care he didn't care.

Which he was, of course.

We didn't talk; just listening to the orchestra play a few songs and dancing quite horribly. I stepped on his feet a couple of times, hoping to scare him away and give me a chance to escape from this horrible reality. I'd go home, soak in the bathtub with scented candles all around me to open my pores, eat a delicious meal and spend the rest of the night thinking about what could've happened like I usually did. I wish everything were so easy, but you could never be so sure while dancing with this boy.

Whose name I didn't even know. "My name is Florence, Florence Hughes. It's a pleasure to, well, dance with you." It seemed so informal, so awkward that it made my skin hiss under the pressure. I was about to burst – it seemed like hours and lengths of time beyond that before he even responded. I supposed he was thinking about his own name, as the fool I labeled him would.

While I waited for his response, I looked into those troubled eyes of his. They were almost hidden by the long, uncut bangs he had. But I could already tell what they were like – brown, a normal color depending on the person who wore it on their face. I had brown eyes, brown like maple syrup. But brown could be the most boring color on the wrong person, a muddy dirt color like that of cow manure. That's what I expected his eyes to be like.

"It's Alfred Argall, and it's a pleasure to dance with you as well." I nodded briskly, my lips in a tight line. Alfred? I was dancing with a country bumpkin named Alfred, an illiterate who was the only person I'd ever _asked_ to dance with me? That was the person in front of me, his hands above my waist and my hands on his shoulders? No, that couldn't be right. I just would never pick someone so unsightly, so rural and unfit for a person like me.

Unless I didn't pick him. Perhaps my mother did, just another one of her old setup games. She'd disguised this suitor this time – made him act stupid and look disgusting. That's why he'd stuttered and stumbled, and avoided me. He'd been thinking of his lines, of what he was supposed to do! This was probably all a mindless trick, something I'd fallen for without hesitation.

I felt completely and utterly horrified by the reality. Breaking apart our dance, I tugged him towards the food table. I'd win this one – that housewife would never marry me off! The debts, the mortgage, she'd have to deal with it all on her own. I wouldn't be under her rule anymore – this wasn't a monarchy. Err, it was, but the point is I'm not her toy! Smiling like a ghoul, I saw Alfred cringe.

"Would you like some pastries? I saw that you liked them earlier." I couldn't help thinking about those sticky jam-covered…_pork chops _I'd held. I didn't deserve that anymore than the next unsuspecting woman. I'd only wanted to eat, not to be caught and served on a silver platter to some suitor. Wasn't it only just that I deserved that? I ranted on in my head, keeping a cool demeanor on the outside except for my slightly twitching eye.

"Err…"

"Wonderful!" I began packing slices of pie into his mouth, each buttery and full of sugar. I'd expected no less from a Dufour party. The Dufour Duchy, which I lived in honorably, was known for its sweets and excellent chefs. Even the prodigies came to study here – there was no other place which surpassed the Dufours. I liked this place because of its sweets, so I would know.

Alfred looked greener and greener by the minute, and I saw him struggle to choke everything down. It was probably the flour; flour was thick especially in the pies and cakes I was giving him, and the butter didn't help too well either. I grabbed a hot tea jug and poured some warm tea down his throat, a little bit dribbling down his shirt. _This will teach my mother to get people to do these crazy things – and "Alfred" here won't be doing it any longer._

There was the sound of a gargled scream coming from Alfred's throat, and I patted his back to help him digest. With a loud belch, Alfred finally came back to life. He was gasping for air, clutching the big of his stomach – which wasn't much – while he rocked back and forth. Naturally I stepped back a few paces, bumping into the table and the stepping back a bit more. With a large heave, Alfred gave to.

Bile poured out onto the floor, and couples around us pinched their noses. Women turned their faces, but I was transfixed on the sight of him vomiting. I had to hold my mouth to stop from throwing up as well, grossed out by the entire scene. He finished his horrible exercise, and stumbled away from the pile he left on the floor.

"That…wasn't…for me to eat. The food…was for…my lamb…" He lost his balance, and dropped to the floor. Food flew out of his shirt, and the large of his stomach didn't seem as large as I'd thought it not to be before. He was but a skeleton, nothing on his bones but flesh and marrow. I felt sickened yet again, by the sight of his thin figure and fainted face.

The other couples began to whisper nervously, already gossiping about the whole thing. I remembered the world I'd been in; the one where mocking people in such a way was not rude at all. Where it was custom to spread rumors, and to not think about the people involved. But now I was a part of the whole thing, and well, it didn't feel too good. I didn't like the humiliation, the immediate docking of my social status.

Looking at the young man in front of me, sprawled on the ground with food popping out of his garments and people calling him a thief, I covered my face in my hands. I was crying, which I usually never did without cause. I never did it truly, either. I was always faking my hurt and sorrow, my vital emotions. I didn't want people to see how broken I was, but I was never fazed in letting people see others break. I didn't want to be the person who did that, but I couldn't change the reality.

It was then I knew something in my heart had definitely changed.

**You'll notice that there is a word "postulant" which is like a just starting nun. Someone who has just started, and is preparing themselves to prove that they're worthy of being a nun. That still seems like a complicated explanation...but I guess it'll have to do. In case I ever mention him again, Humphrey Dufour is supposed to Humpty Dumpty in this story. But, I couldn't find a name that sounded like Humpty Dumpty exactly so I guess references are what you're going to have to live on to understand that's he's Humpty Dumpty.**


	2. The First Meeting: Part Two

**I made this bit a whole ton shorter, because 2,000 characters is WAY too much to take in at a time, and with so much junk you'd probably get bored. As for the rating of this story, T, it will probably show more towards the middle of the story. Sorry, for those of you really expecting it. Please keep reading, even though there's not anything T just yet! Flame and Review!**

Alfred had been taken to the clinic, and I held his filthy hand the entire way. I hadn't meant filthy in a rude way, but instead in an endearing way. Because that's how I'd first held his hand, how I'd first met him. I didn't want to demolish that and say everything about him was perfect, because in truth almost nothing about him was. Nothing, that is, to the human eye. But if you looked beyond what you saw, you found something deeper to Alfred.

All I knew about him was that his last name was Argall, and he probably hadn't eaten in a while. A couple men claimed to have known him as a schoolmate of Humphrey Dufour, the clumsy and handsome child. He'd been invited many times, offered money and gifts and such but never having accepted them. Apparently he had a lamb, and that's what caused him to take the food most likely.

And Alfred, he was the most beautiful man without all of my judgments in the way. His long hair was like the mane of a horse, sure tangled and choppy, but majestic in its own natural and carefree way. His eyes were a murky green, something I hadn't bothered to realize before. They were like the bottom of a lake, with all the different fish and animal living and feeding and growing. There wasn't anything gross or troublesome about him.

The doctor had diagnosed the entire thing as nausea from not eating, and then eating too fast and hurriedly. He'd questioned me quite a bit about the events of the ball, and before I knew it he was handing me his handkerchief because I'd used up my own. I was bawling my eyes out, not sure why but it felt good. It felt good and freeing, letting all my vented up feelings run free down my face. I'd never expected something so…disgraceful to be so good for you.

I'd spoken of my terrible opinion on him, Alfred that it. How I'd thought of him as a filthy and lowly person, someone who barely deserved my notice. And in which case he found it should be pleased and thank me for it. How I'd treated him like dust, upset it was gathering all around me and being so stingy. When in truth, he was nothing but kind and reserved, not stingy or clingy like I'd imagined him. I could summarize only one thing – I was a dastardly person who needed immediate reform.

"Well, ma'am, I'm afraid I can't hear you rant on. I do suppose you could spend some time with the patient, but please don't get too close. I'm afraid he still might smell." Nodding, I watched the doctor go outside and talk with the nurse. He didn't understand either. He didn't see what I saw. I knew that it was possible, because my mother talked about her life that way plenty of times.

My father and she weren't even married when they'd been told of my nearing arrival. They rushed in a marriage, took the vows absentmindedly and worked their bones to mush for my sake. I'd always taken things like that for granted. My father, he's a very spindly fellow with fingers built for harp plucking. He never talks, not to anyone but my mother. If he does talk to me, on rare occasions, it's all business. Never anything else.

They say he's got no personality, how he's just not the man who should've won my mother's heart. Considering she was the beauty of the town, they find it unbelievably stupid that a woman of so much to say married a man of so few words. Not only that, but they had a daughter! If the man couldn't bear a son, who would own the rights but another man? A son-in-law, who isn't even worth the mention?

This is how they talked of my father and my mother's relationship. They talked as if they themselves could change the decision, that by their malicious speak they would gain a divorce of some kind. But they can't, because my mother has always seen her husband, and not the boring man they depict. She's always seen the man she's loved, not the fool people think him to be without even learning his name.

"Hart." I whisper, lying down on Alfred's sickbed. He doesn't smell, like the doctor implied. He's just perfect. He's who I see, and if not what other see than that's fine with me. Because I like having this vision to myself, knowing the true Alfred as the one and only who does. I gasped, but it's not an upset gasp.

Because I've finally realized that I might've fallen in love with this bumpkin.

**I split this into two chapters, since originally it was the previous chapter and this as one single thing. That would've been SUPER overwhelming. Anyways, I was thinking of After Hamelin, which is not owned by me, when I wrote this. I really love this book, but it doesn't get much recognition or anything because of the Canadian author. So, if you read this I'm giving you a heads up that reading the book would be super awesome if you like variations on average fairy tales!**

**-Somewhat Sentient  
**


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